And then a year ago I found out what you do. How you kill innocent men, women and kids. Kill them for money. My whole world ended.

  But son, everything you do has a price.

  I brought you home because I wanted to save you. But since you’re reading this, then that means I’m dead, and I failed you again. I’m sorry. I tried. I wanted to save you. Your mother and I loved you very much.

  That was it. Nothing else. Fred read the letter several times, looking for clues, looking for anything to explain why his father had done all of this. If he was trying to save Fred, why would he hire him for the hit? It didn’t make sense.

  The second envelope had nothing written on it. Fred tore it open.

  Dear Special Agent Hobbes,

  As we discussed on the phone earlier this evening, I believe my son is the killer known as Bloodshed Fred. If I’m right, then I am now dead, because I hired him to kill me. It breaks my heart to do this, but I can’t allow him to kill any more innocent people. If you arrive at my house tonight, you ’ll know whether or not I was right. This will be the proof you will need to show you I was right.

  And a handwritten note at the bottom of the letter:

  I spoke to the agent a little earlier, Fred. I don’t know how quickly they’ll get here, but I believe you don’t have much time. I also mailed everything to him, including your bank account information. There’s nowhere to go now. It’s over.

  Please make peace with that.

  How long ago had his father written the letters? Or called the feds?

  Though the thick silence Fred could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  He turned to run, to escape the madhouse of his childhood and figure out his next plan. So what if his father had managed to confiscate his US account? He had more than one, most overseas and untraceable. He could flee the country, hide out in Canada or South America, he could—

  And then the squeal of brakes outside, the slam of car doors, the heavy and persistent footfalls on the driveway and through the thick weeds and bushes surrounding the house.

  This couldn’t be happening. Fred bolted up the stairs two and three at a time and reached the top landing.

  His bag of weapons was near the front door where he’d dropped it.

  Eyes wild, Fred ran down the hallway, tripping over the scatter rug, catching himself against the windowsill. He glanced down at the dozens of agents swarming the house.

  As the front door burst open and the shouting began, Fred hoped he had enough bullets.

  MITCHELL GRAHAM

  MITCHELL Graham began writing science fiction novels several years ago and recently switched to legal thrillers. His first, MURDER ON THE MAJESTIC, is due out in November 2006 and has been optioned for an upcoming movie by Cherokee Productions. He holds dual degrees in law and neuropsychology.

  On the topic of this anthology, Mitch comments: “The psychology of what makes a hitman tick holds a macabre fascination for a lot of people. The reader is alternatively pulled toward the victim, hoping they will escape their fate, and toward the dark side of the hitman trapped or molded by events into theirs.”

  Visit him at www.MitchellGraham.net

  THE LOUVRE CAFE

  Mitchell Graham

  “IT’S A FUNDAMENTAL truth. Do you know what that is?” she asked.

  The man leaned back in his chair and squinted at the courtyard across from them before answering. It was late in October and unusually warm for this time of the year. Heat waves rose from the ancient cobblestones and shimmered just above the ground’s surface. A half-full glass of Campari sat in front of him.

  “I suppose you mean that it’s somehow truer than other truths, but I ask again, what will it prove?”

  “It will draw attention to our cause. . .our suffering.”

  The man nodded once.

  “I would like to understand this suffering you speak of.”

  When the young woman didn’t respond he prompted, “If I’m going to die the least you can do is explain it to me. That’s not asking very much.”

  The young woman glanced at him and then stared over his shoulder at the glass pyramid in the middle of the courtyard. Her eyes became unfocused. Against the backdrop of the elegant buildings that surrounded it, the pyramid appeared anomalous and out of place. A series of statues lined the rooftops, looking down on people who waited patiently in line for guards to inspect their packages. Among these were a group of school children in blue blazers and clean white shirts. The man thought they were not much younger than the woman sitting across from him. She was perhaps nineteen at most.

  “You can’t know what it’s like not to have a homeland,” she said. The words seemed spoken more to herself than to him.

  “No, I can’t. But how will this solve your problem?”

  “The world will take notice. They will put pressure on the Israelis to give us what is ours.”

  “Haven’t they already given your people land on the Gaza Strip?”

  She laughed to herself and shook her head.

  “Not enough,” she replied. “Not nearly enough.”

  “I see.”

  Her eyes came into focus again and fixed upon him. Her right index finger was poised above the green button of her cell phone.

  “You are like all the others,” she said. “The Americans think they know everything.”

  The man raised his hands in a placating gesture to calm her. “I am a Frenchman.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You are all the same. You only wish to exploit us.”

  “Have you ever met an American?”

  The woman started to say something then appeared to change her mind. She looked at the group of children who were now nearing the guard station. “No.”

  “Then how can you know what they are like?”

  “Because our leaders and the mullahs teach us. They are holy men and I will enter the kingdom of heaven. My family will be forever blessed.”

  “So you are doing this for your family?”

  “For my family and my people, yes.”

  “You must be very brave.”

  The woman swallowed and let out a long breath. Her hand was shaking slightly.

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m very scared, but this is something I must do. God wants me to.”

  The man’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  “God? God wants you to die? I cannot fathom such a thing. In my religion God loves his people. Is yours so very different?”

  “Of course not,” she replied. “Our God loves us as well.”

  “Then how do you know he wants you to die?”

  “My mullah has spoken to me,” she repeated.

  “Ah,” he said. “May I ask you another question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  A waiter started to approach them but the man signaled him away with his hand.

  “In your religion, are mullahs permitted to marry? I know your leaders are. I’ve seen photographs.”

  The woman thought for a moment. “Yes.”

  “And do they have children—the mullahs, I mean?”

  “Of course. You said one question. That was two.”

  “Forgive me,” the man replied. “I am scared as well. I did not think to die when I sat down here with you.”

  The woman nodded absently and glanced at the large clock over the entrance, its face meticulously etched with gold scrollwork. The time read eight minutes before the hour.

  The café had been crowded and his choosing this particular table was strictly by chance. How ironic, he thought. Normally, we French do not begin conversations with total strangers, but the dark-haired woman seemed troubled and her cappuccino had not been touched. It wasn’t until he took his chair and her coat gapped open slightly that he noticed she was wearing a vest. Then he saw the thin wires coming from it and he immediately knew why the pockets were bulging. She had sufficient plastic explosives to destroy not only the museum, but the entire block.

  “You said your mullah is a holy man. By this, do you mean that he is also good?”

  “Certainly he is good. Who would follow someone evil?”

  “Indeed. It is just that. . .”

  “Yes?”

  “There are times evil can disguise itself, or so I’m told.”

  “You would not say such stupid things if you knew my people. I assure you my mullah is a good man. God’s work is everything to him.”

  “Is the same true of other mullahs?”

  The woman made an annoyed gesture with her hand.

  “I don’t know any other mullahs. I suppose so. Why do you not leave? I will wait.”

  But the man did not leave. This surprised him as much as it did the woman. He had never been brave in his own eyes.

  “I am curious,” he said, after a moment. “These mullahs and leaders, who you tell me are good, do they send their own children to blow themselves up?”

  The young woman turned to look at him.

  “What?”

  “I asked if they ever send their own—”

  “I heard you. I don’t know. Can’t you understand? I must do this. If we strike down the infidels, the unbelievers—”

  “And you can tell the infidels just by looking?” the man asked.

  The young woman glanced at the clock again. Her breathing was quicker now. It read three minutes before the hour.

  “You should go,” she said, without turning around.

  “You haven’t answered my question. Because if you can tell the content of someone’s heart and what they believe in simply by looking at them, this truly is an amazing talent.”

  The young woman reached out a shaky hand, picked up his glass of Campari, and finished the remainder in a single swallow. “You are just trying to confuse me. You are like all the others.”

  “Not really,” he replied quietly. “I am a Muslim.”

  The young woman’s eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly. “You lie.”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Do you see that little girl over there?” he asked. “The one with the balloon, holding her mother’s hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what their religion is?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Neither do I.”

  A minute ticked by and then another and neither spoke. In the background, the sounds of different conversations blended together with people laughing. It was a very warm day and the sky was a crisp blue. The young woman’s eyes grew bright and a single teardrop slid down her cheek. The man saw this and reached out, gently placing his hand on top of hers.

  AT A QUARTER past the hour, four blocks from the museum, two bearded men in turbans sat by the window of their hotel room waiting for a different sound—that of an explosion. When nothing happened their eyes burned with outrage.

  “The girl has failed us,” the first one said.

  His companion nodded. “She and her family will be severely punished. We will teach them a lesson that will not be soon forgotten—an example for the others.”

  The first man said, “If we cannot have obedience, then we must—”

  The balance of his words were interrupted by a light tap at the door. His companion rose, crossed the room, and cracked it open slightly. When he saw who was there his face grew even darker and he opened it fully.

  The man at the window folded his arms across his chest as the young woman entered and sat down on one of the chairs. Without speaking he reached for the curtain rod and unhooked it. It was perhaps two feet in length and slightly thicker than the quarter inch the Koran prescribed for disciplining a woman, but Allah would understand. One needed to be flexible in times of adversity.

  The woman did not flinch when his companion pulled her to her feet and yanked off her coat. Nor did she flinch when the first man came toward her with his arm raised.

  The blow, however, never arrived.

  The man’s arm froze in midair when he finally noticed her finger was resting on the cell phone’s green button.

  BENJAMIN M. LEROY

  BENJAMIN M. LeRoy was born and raised in Madison, WI. His short stories have appeared in two collections-The Best Underground Fiction (ed. Scott Miles) and North Florida Noir (ed. Michael Lister). When he isn’t worried about words, he often wishes he could have played baseball through the Great Depression.

  When asked about hitmen, Benjamin says, “I want to say something cool, frame it in some Quentin Tarantino way that we can all get a good laugh out of seeing somebody killed. But the truth is, right now I think the whole thing is too tragic. Not just from the victim’s standpoint, but from the hitman’s perspective. How the hell did somebody end up in a place where he/she can kill another human being for a handful of cash? There is a greater struggle present that goes beyond predator and prey-the killing is only the cork popping and it’s a throw away part of the story. Who? Why? How? There are real questions to be explored both in literature and on the street.”

  Visit Benjamin at www.benjaminleroy.com

  LETTERS FROM HOME

  Benjamin M. LeRoy

  I TOLD MYSELF it would never come to this. Sooner or later the fall would stop. I would hit bottom. But it’s three o’clock in the morning in Cleveland and I’m waiting on some two-bit diner waitress to step through her front door so I can put her brains on the kitchen tile.

  I keep falling.

  APRIL 1, 2004

  Hi from home! I miss you so much and I can’t wait for you to come back. It seems like forever since you left, I just hope the time keeps moving fast. I know that when you come home we will be together forever. I often think about what our family will be like and I’ve even started picking out houses. I don’t know if we’ll be able to afford them, but I don’t care, not now. I’m only passing time until you get back and we can go window shopping together.

  Where are my pictures, mister? I want to see you in your uniform holding a machine gun. Or maybe riding in a tank. I can’t believe that you’re really over there and I won’t believe it until I see pictures.

  If you’re a good boy, I’ll send you some pictures, too.

  You’ll never guess who I ran into the other day—Caleb Washburn. Can you believe it? Nobody knew where he went after high school, but it turns out he was in Kansas working on his grandparents’ farm. Anyway, he said to say, ‘hey.’

  Love,

  Baby Girl

  I SET THE GUN down on the coffee table, put my head in my hands. Count to three and tell myself this isn’t happening. Hasn’t happened. I can still get up off the couch, disappear back into the shadows.

  Fuck $500.

  HEY BABY!

  It’s been hard without you, but I’ve been trying to keep myself busy. School’s gonna start back up in less than a month. I’m working doubles to save up money so I don’t have to work as much this fall. We’ve got some new people at work. We’ll all go out once we close. It’s a blast. I’ve never been sooooo drunk. There’s a cool new club we’ll have to go to once you get back. We’ll dance all night.

  Your mom came over to dinner last night. We traded pictures of you. She really is proud of you, you can see it in her eyes. How come you didn’t send me a copy of the one from your bunk? You look so handsome.

  Every time I go to sleep I put my head on your pillow and pray that you’ll be there when I wake up in the morning. Sometimes I get sad when you’re not there.

  I love you.

  Baby Girl

  I WISH I WASN’T HERE. Should have gotten into the van with Poole and gone off to wherever he was going just to get the hell out of town.

  “Listen man,” he said, “I know what it’s like. They pump you full of everything, teach you how to be a soldier, then they leave you on the side of the road when you’re done. When they’re done with you. Shit, I wasn’t home more than six months when I started getting sick, but when I showed up at their hospital, they acted like they didn’t know who I was.”

  “I understand,” I say. But Poole is already gone, a hundred miles an hour out of town. Destination unknown. Looking for hope at every exit.

  Howdy!

  I’m sorry I missed your phone call last night. I didn’t think I was going to stay out so late, and when my cell phone is in my purse, I can’t hear it ring. I wish I could have called you right back.

  School sucks. I’m thinking about taking the semester off and working full-time. We’ve got a good crew of people, and I miss them when I’m at school. I feel like such a loser, since most people hate their jobs, but, I don’t know, it just feels right. Caleb says he’s glad that he moved back home and that this is the happiest he’s been in a long time.

  I miss you so much. It’s really hard.

  Baby Girl

  I CAN HEAR THE thunder in the distance. Everything in the living room is blending into the dark. The TV becomes the entertainment center becomes the wall. Only a few lines to distinguish the shapes.

  A car pulls to a stop in front of the house. Engine idles. The low rumble of bass coming from a rattling trunk.

  I slide the gun off the table, squeeze it tight, the snakeskin of metal leaving the pattern on my palm.

  Revisit the plan. The door will open. The door will close. She turns on the light. I am there.

  There’s still time to disappear.

  Charlie—

  Baby, I’m so sorry what happened to your mom. I talked with your brother and the doctor. She’s going to be ok, but she doesn’t have any insurance. I feel so bad. I’m sure it’ll be ok.

  Love you,

  Baby Girl

  THE ENGINE REVS, drops into gear, the bass fades into the night. She is not home yet. I take a deep breath and get off the couch. I’ve memorized the layout of the tables and the furniture. Drawn the map in my head. Thumb tacks to hold everything in place.